


I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of You.

by Cadence1694



Category: Happy Valley (TV), Last Tango In Halifax
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Gen, Gillian is in trouble again, Tags Are Hard, Things are taken at face value
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cadence1694/pseuds/Cadence1694
Summary: Gillian get's into trouble, Raff calls in the cavalry, they get more than they bargained for.(Aka the crack fiction idea that I couldn't get to leave me alone)Totally indulgent car karaoke (bite me! I love Lancs singing)Sooo many breadcrumbs for crossover left by SW that I went in search of the gingerbread house (or maybe that should be cake crumbs and rabbit hole).
Relationships: Catherine Cawood/Gillian Greenwood, Gillian Greenwood/Caroline McKenzie-Dawson
Comments: 56
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I read a lot. I am however no writer. Forgive me.
> 
> Having left this alone long enough to hope it would find life at the hands of someone else, it didn't, so here it is.
> 
> Thank you to Vivian Darkbloom for the encouragement to dip a toe in the water, for indulging my need to toss my crack theories her way, and also for her beta talents.  
> You can thank her for the correct punctuation I'm afraid all mistakes in every other area are mine.
> 
> The fabulous characters I thank Sally Wainwright for and probably should add an apology for taking liberties with!
> 
> Any feed back gratefully received.

Generally, Caroline enjoyed the half hour trip from Huddersfield to Hebden. The time alone allowed her to ruminate without the constant questioning of either a bright seven-year-old or a forensically inquisitive pensioner. For much of the route the road ran parallel with the canal, offering glimpses of a slower pace of travel. The Calder Valley looked glorious in fine weather and today was bright, the verdant scenery unfolding before her underlining why Gillian fought so hard to hold onto the farm. Caroline mused that solace could be found walking on high moors on such a day. Particularly with a deaf, aged sheep dog as your only companion. A far cry from the noisy clatter of students in corridors and the usual bustle of the school day.

About two miles past Sowerby Bridge, Caroline’s car karaoke with Robert Smith and the Cure was rudely interrupted. “Pictures of You” was silenced and the shrill tone of her phone cut in, Raff’s profile filled the screen and she hit receive on her handsfree.

“Caz, thank God!”  
“Raff, what’s happened?” Immediately Caroline’s mind raced to Flora, who was supposed to be at Celia and Alan’s with Calamity.  
“Me mam—she’s been arrested.”  
Caroline’s stomach clenched further, pictures of Eddie bleeding out in the barn flashed before her.  
“Wha—what happened, where is she?”  
“Norland Road nick. It were Cheryl, t’sheep got out again and her and me mam got into it, it got heated, words were ‘ad and me mam swung fer ‘er.”  
“Christ on a bike!” Caroline only slightly less anxious replied “Ok, I’m not far out of Sowerby. I’ll head down to Norland and see what’s what.”

Hanging up, Caroline then dialled Celia’s number. She knew that less said would be better, Celia and Gillian had been circling like junkyard dogs since the row at the birthday tea. She could only imagine what her mother would have to say about this latest development in the continuing drama that was Gillian.  
“Mum, it’s me. Listen, I’m running a bit behind, can you feed the girls? Yes, Yes, I know, I’m sorry, I’ll be home as soon as I can.”  
Caroline turned the Jag around and headed back to Sowerby Bridge. Careful to remember the locations of the fiendishly positioned speed cameras, she put her pedal to the metal as hard as she dared.

Finally, she pulled up outside Norland Road Police station. Thankfully, there was a free spot at the curbside negating the need for protracted maneuvering of the Jag into small spaces. Grabbing her coat and purse from the backseat, she made for the entrance with a purposeful stride. When dealing with figures of authority, Caroline had learned to look the part; going full-on head teacher in her demeanour was merited in such occasions, either disarming or engaging those who would challenge her.

With a whoosh, the automatic doors parted and she was relieved to note that the reception was almost empty. In one corner a bored youth sat picking his spots, jiggling a knee up and down nervously as he stared at the floor. On the far side of the room, decidedly distanced from said youth a bobble-hatted pensioner sat shoulders hunched over herself defensively, replete with the accouterments befitting her station: walking stick, medical stockings, and a tartan-wheeled shopping trolley (were they even still a thing?).

The desk clerk, a middle aged, chunky dark-haired woman looked up. “Thank Christ! What took you so long?”  
Caroline was taken aback at the overfamiliarity. Wrong-footed, she stammered, “I was just outside town when I got the call, I came straight here.”  
“Yeah well, yer here now, c’mon through.” The clerk pressed a button and the steel-reinforced door to the side of the desk window buzzed and swung open. The clerk hovered just inside the threshold.  
Nonplussed but eager to see Gillian, Caroline entered.

The clerk set off at a pace down the corridor marked “Custody,” with Caroline scurrying to keep up as well as her Jimmy Choos would allow. “You scrub up well, must say. What’s with the duds? Is that coat cashmere? Finally decided to get yerself out there and swipe right?”  
Before Caroline could answer, the clerk carried on: “Anyway, right old to-do with PC Elsewhere and Robbie Greenwood’s ex missus up at Far Slack. Rampaging sheep loose around Hebden, causing mayhem and our Cheryl of course in her element dashing up there like Wyatt Friggin’ Earp. Apparently, Greenwood laid her out, I mean Lord knows she probably deserved it and we’ve all wanted to at one time or another but assault of a police officer and all that. Yon Cheryl never did take kindly to being passed over by Robbie—not that he were catch of the year, but hey. Anyway, right gobby his ex-missus, yelling about abuse of power, police harassment. Perhaps you can talk reason to her.” With that, they stopped outside a cell door marked F3.

The clerk brandished a large bunch of keys before unlocking the door and shoving Caroline inside. Beating a hasty retreat back up the corridor, the clerk was gone in an instant. Dazed, Caroline took in the dark cell and the figure lain on the bed.  
“Hiya, Caz.” Gillian’s scowl transformed into a shy smirk as she greeted her stepsister.  
Before Caroline could respond, she became aware of a thundering of footsteps as someone ran down the corridor outside. Suddenly the doorframe was filled with an imposing figure in bright yellow, baton deployed, no-nonsense stance, the now ashen-faced clerk hovering behind them.  
“Who the hell are you?" the figure demanded  
Rooted to the spot despite the question yelled by the officer before her, Caroline was immediately stuck dumb: For she was looking at her uniformed twin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter, or should that be the beginning? A.k.a. "how it might have happened".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind comments to chapter one. Again, any errors are mine.

“All fungi are edible. Some fungi are only edible once” - Terry Pratchett

Kenneth Dawson was not a bad man per se, so much as a weak one. The fated only child of a war widow he had spent most of his adolescence on a pedestal. A bright lad, he had realised early on after his father’s death that the route to escaping the cloying back-to-back terraces of his neighbourhood lay through the gates of the local grammar school. Whilst other boys in his street were to be found huddled dirt-kneed amongst the dank alleys terrorising whichever small creatures were misfortunate enough to fall across their paths, Kenneth spent his time in the company of books. Clutching his borrowers’ ticket as assuredly as his father must have clung to the flotsam from upon which his bleached, bloated form had been recovered, the young man made his way daily to the Walkley Carnegie Library after the school bell sounded. With his pile of books gathered, he would cross the few streets to home and curl around the dim spluttering light of a toc h lamp, feasting like a beggar at a banquet until his mother closed his book and required him to replace mental sustenance with its nutritional counterpart. His success at his eleven plus was rewarded with the patronage of the local vicar, who not only bestowed upon him an annual scholarship from the local diocese but also procured an aging bicycle upon which Kenneth made the daily bone-rattling commute over cobbled streets to the school grounds.  
Possessed of a raffish charm, coupled with a strong jawline and perfectly centralised chin dimple, Kenneth was a flaxen-haired Cary Grant. He enjoyed a deal of success with the girls from the neighbouring school. Despite the conventions of the day, however, he was no gentleman when it came to his dates, preferring to engage his charm in pursuit of hedonistic pleasure. He was becoming a man’s man. Academic and sporting prowess, and the continued patronage of the clergy, propelled him to captainship of the local cricket team and thus into the orbit of the owner of the local steel works. Kenneth was taken on as an apprentice design engineer, With his movie-star looks and money in the pocket of his smart new suit he began to prowl the dance halls. On one such hunting trip he stumbled across a weeping Celia Armitage. A striking lass, she caught his attention and was soon in possession of his pressed silk handkerchief as she dabbed her eyes and explained apologetically that she had just found her boyfriend Frank availing himself of charms of her younger sister Muriel. Celia was a lamb to Kenneth's Reynard-like instincts and would have held his attention just long enough to be a dalliance but for one thing: Unlike his other women, Celia, though clearly enamoured with him, refused to let him get past first base. Several picnics and dances and even a day trip to Bridlington on the works shutdown outing did not sway her. Yet she was bright and funny and Kenneth knew that if his trajectory to higher management was to be well-oiled it would require a wife who could accompany him to company functions and perhaps draw eyes as they cut the rug at dinner dances. Thus they were married.

Even at the altar Kenneth's wandering eye would not stay still long enough to focus on Celia’s doe eyed gaze as she recited her vows. Rather he caught sight of Marjorie Cartwright, a colleague of Celia’s from the local mill manager’s office where they were both shorthand secretaries, sat two rows back and visible over Celia’s right shoulder. Three weeks after the wedding, Marjorie and Kenneth drove out in Kenneth’s car for a picnic one afternoon when he was supposedly on a working lunch with a customer. Their affair, like all his other dalliances, was short-lived once the thrill of the chase had been sated. She was just one of many that followed.

It was precisely 7 years later, returning via the long route from a business trip to Manchester that Kenneth was to recall their short communion. The day was fine and his meeting had finished early, so he decided to drive the back route through Hebden Bridge. Though a longer route there was a fine pub in Hebden where the landlord kept a well-stocked cellar of Kenneth's favourite ale. He took his pint jug and went and sat next to the open window, observing the stream that ran just outside. He heard the delighted laughter of two children as they clambered down onto the shingle beach on the opposite side of the river. As they came more clearly into view he became confused. It was his daughter Caroline, and yet it couldn’t be. He had left her and Celia headed for the dentist this morning, and Celia had demanded a crisp note from his wallet for the purpose at breakfast. The young girl’s companion was some two or so years younger and as dark as the elder was blonde. The closer he looked, the more he saw Caroline, The two children looked back up to the small wall from over which they had come. A head-scarfed woman was calling them. Suddenly the beer soured in his stomach. Marjorie. He baulked. On weak legs he stood, the bile rising in his throat. His award-winning ale abandoned half finished, he wobbled toward the door, making it outside just in time to hurl onto the pavement. He got in to his car and, gripping the steering wheel with shaking hands, put the shift in 1st and sent the vehicle screeching out of out of town. He did not stop again until he was well out of the Calder Valley, all the time repeating like a mantra: “Celia must never know, Celia must never know!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine goes, well, all Catherine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you again to my beta for giving up time to this. My punctuation really is appalling; I'm hopeful I have captured all of the suggested revisions. As ever I own my errors.
> 
> I am also very appreciative of all those who have taken the time to comment.
> 
> *** warning for mild swearing and blasphemy - if it isn't your thing replace it in your head as you read along ***

“I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please don’t ask me who I am.” - Sylvia Plath

Catherine, eager to contain the station rumour mill, swiftly moved Caroline to her office. Gillian had been told to “stay put!” whilst Catherine “got things sorted” and, too dazed by the concept of two Carolines, had somewhat surprisingly nodded compliantly and sunk back onto the bunk behind her. A rather shaken and contrite Joyce was back at her post, and the custody sergeant had returned from her illicit fag break and was back behind the charge desk, none the wiser as to the events that had unfolded. There was, of course the small matter of CCTV; Gillian and a comatose drunk were the only customers and Catherine was confident no one would have cause to check it before it was archived. Of course this was the police; there is a form for ordering more forms for Christ’s sake. Protocol dictated that a security breach form be completed. Bugger that! Said form would land straight on the desk of Professional Standards, and that would set hares racing carrying yet more gossip and conjecture about Catherine’s life and she’d had more than enough of that with Tommy Lee Fucking Royce. Besides, in fairness to Joyce, it had been an easy mistake to make.

“Fuck it!” Catherine thought. Girding herself, she pushed open her office door. The occupant rose to speak. Catherine held up her finger.

“Hold up! Before you say owt there’s things I need to sort if I’m to get the custody sergeant to release Ms. Greenwood. I’ll close door. No one should disturb you, but if they do they’ll think yer me an’ I’d be obliged if you’d let ‘em. Sit behind my desk, don’t touch owt and tell anyone that knocks that yer busy wi’ month end crime figures and to come back later."

Leaving an open-mouthed Caroline standing there, Catherine closed the door and made her way back to the crew room. She uttered thanks to every deity she could remember that today was sunny and every member of the Upper Valley’s neighbourhood team except her had suddenly found something to do outside of the nick. The ground floor was empty, save for Joyce, the custody sergeant, her new visitors, the drunk and the two people in the foyer. Cheryl had booked off duty, no doubt to raise a glass or two at one-upping Ms. Greenwood, Catherine mused. She doubted that the incident had gone down exactly as Joyce had repeated from Cheryl’s initial report. A recent transfer from Traffic, Cheryl had ruffled one or two feathers amongst the team with her tendency to offer her opinion a little too freely. Catherine had tolerated it so far; it took a while to bed in to a wider team after years of working as a partnership and the Traffic section could be a bit toxically masculine. It wasn’t hard to imagine Cheryl being an eager participant in a tussle, especially as there was bad blood already with Greenwood. Catherine was further willing to bet that Cheryl’s exuberance would have pushed from her mind the presence of her Body Worn Camera, or BWC, and also the fact that it automatically downloaded to Force systems when placed in the charger at the end of each shift. Sitting at a computer Catherine swiped her Warrant Card through the reader, entered her pin and the system fired into action.

About ten minutes after Catherine’s perusal of the BWC footage, Gillian found herself in receipt of hushed instructions and then in front of the Charge desk being de-arrested. Clutching a clear plastic bag containing her phone, money, necklace, belt and shoelaces she was let out of the station. Following Catherine’s instructions to the letter she turned left, walked a further five yards and tapped once on the door before her. The door swung open and a strong arm guided her into the office opposite. In closer proximity now the two people she was sharing the space with were even more a reflection of each other.

“Bloody ‘ell Caz!” was all that Gillian could manage. Catherine moved toward the rear of the office taking up the desk seat Caroline had vacated.

“Ms. Greenwood, Ms., er, McKenzie, was it? I’d be grateful if you were to take a seat. I’ll not keep yer long.”

“McKenzie-Dawson.” Even shell-shocked, Caroline still managed to be every inch the head teacher.

“Oh, aye, McKenzie-Dawson. Well, as I explained to Ms. Greenwood, it appears Officer Elsewhere were not entirely blameless in escalation of matters. Something I’ll be discussing with her in the morning. That’s not to say Ms. Greenwood that I’ll be turning a blind eye to the assault of one of my officers in the future. With all that’s gone on today however, I’d be grateful if we could say no more on the matter and agree to move on.”

Gillian, who had by now begun to regain some of her usual feist, looked about to say something, Caroline’s hand shot onto her upper thigh, leaving her dry-mouthed and speechless.

Caroline’s snotty bitch accent contrasted with the rich local dialect of her apparent dopplegänger. “Sergeant, that’s very kind of you. I’m sure Gillian agrees.”

Catherine stood. “Right, right, good! Well as I said, I’ll not keep yer. You have transport back up to Far Slack?”

Caroline nodded. “Yes, my Jaguar is outside”

“I’ll let you out, then,” Catherine replied.

With that, Caroline and Gillian found themselves hustled to the pavement and watched as they pulled away from the kerb.  
As Catherine closed the door, she looked at her office, empty now save for the rather large elephant left standing in the middle of it. She reached into her pocket for her emergency fag packet, slumping back against the door she had just closed, she banged her head repeatedly against it, punctuating each thud with a resounding “Shit!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gillian is supportive ;p and Caroline does what she knows best - she researches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Probably should ramp up the swearing warning another degree. Feel free to replace it in your head ***
> 
> And yes, they are still my errors. (When you know the words, join in)

_ “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” _

_ “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat. _

Lewis Carroll, _ Alice in Wonderland _

“She’s got the flamin’ Queen’s Police medal for bravery!” Gillian exclaimed, her google search having offered up a profile of Catherine from the Force’s “Meet your local Neighbourhood Team” page, and a news article from the  _ Hebden Bridge Times. _

“Yes, well, she seems very competent,” Caroline offered absently.

“Shit! Caz, d’yer think….”

“Gillian, I can’t think, my mind is a mess right now!”

“Well, says here she’s a Hebden local. Celia’s from Sowerby, she could be a lost cousin.”

“Gillian, I look like my dad. He was from Sheffield!”

“Oh, Kenneth: the inveterate shagger!”

“Yes, inveterate and apparently fertile!”

“Then…”

“Precisely! And we know how my mother reacted to Gary— this will finish her off!”

“Oh, shit, yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Caroline cranked up the radio and stared over the wheel.

  
  
  


600-thread Egyptian cotton sheets had never felt more like sackcloth. Caroline tossed and turned. Huffing, she stared up at the beams above her. Her sleep deprived mind developed pareidolia and knotholes and blemishes became faces that mocked her from above. Faces! That was the last thing she wanted to think about. Reaching across, she fumbled for her phone. Gillian had pinged her a WhatsApp. As she opened the message, a snippet of Marvin Gaye’s “You are Everything” played: “Today I saw somebody who looked just like you.” 

“Apparently there is a 1-in-135 chance that there’s a single pair of complete dopplegängers,  _ click this. _ ” Gillian had put.

Caroline followed the link to a University of Adelaide study. As a scientist, Caroline realised that the even application of the Infinite Monkey Theorem did not support a non-DNA link with Sergeant Cawood. Multiplying the probabilities together, the likelihood of a monkey-typed complete works of Shakespeare materialising would disappear speedily. The University of Adelaide research agreed with her too: 7.5 billion people in the world and it was still statistically unlikely. She didn’t need Adelaide University research nor her own undergraduate and graduate education to realise that her father was an inveterate shag bandit. 

“Fuck. I’m gonna have to face this, aren’t I?” she typed back.

The grey tick turned to blue. “Typing… “ appeared.

“Ha ha ha! Face! I see what you did there.”

“You are not fucking helping … twat!” Caroline rolled her eyes.

“Wub you 💓,” Gillian responded. Which would have been far more of a consolation had it not been attached to a gif of John Travolta and Nicholas Cage in  _ Face Off. _

All thoughts of sleep abandoned, Catherine rose and wandered down to the kitchen, an eager Ruth shadowing her in hope of an early breakfast. Sitting at the large oak table with her artisanal coffee steaming, she fired up her tablet and typed _Catherine Cawood_ as spelt on the business card she had pilfered from the pile on the sergeant’s desk. _Births, Marriages, Deaths, England_ were entered into the search engine. Discounting a few death notices for Scotland she clicked on the fourth entry, Divorce: Cawood Richard John vs Cawood nee Cartwright Catherine, March 2007. There was also a 2006 Death announcement from the newspaper: “Rebecca “Becky” Cawood, loving daughter of Richard and Catherine, sister to Daniel, niece to Clare and mother of Ryan. Always in our hearts.” Jeez that was hard, losing a child, explained the divorce though, few couples made it after the death of a child. Caroline re-entered _Marriage_ _Richard John Cawood, Catherine Cartwright_ into the search bar and was rewarded with a newspaper’s marriage announcement in 1986. Intriguingly, though the announcement stated both Richard’s parents, Catherine was listed as “Daughter of the late Marjorie.” Bollocks! Caroline really was going to have to contact the woman.

  
  
  


Clare, hearing movement downstairs, looked at the clock: The red illuminated numerals announced 03:20. Catherine was on days this week, she shouldn’t be up for another three hours. She got up, grabbed her robe from the back of the door, and made her way to the now-empty kitchen below. The kettle was warm to the touch and Clare could smell cigarette smoke. Shaking her head, she made herself a brew and walked through to the lean-to at the front of the house. Catherine sat brooding, staring into space, her bottom lip protruding with a lost soul look she only possessed when unmasked and unobserved. The long ash from her cigarette dangled precariously on the end.

“Catherine, what’s up? Yer’ve not bin right since yer came in last night. Has sommat ‘appened? It’s not Royce again?”

Catherine flicked the ash off her cigarette and took a final long slow pull, watching the smoke tendrils curl, before she extinguishing it menacingly in the ashtray.

“Sit down, there’s sommat weird I need to tell yer,” she replied, without turning her head


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine tries to avoid Joyce; That works well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual drill, my mistakes are mine.

_ “I know all the lines to say, the part I’m supposed to play, but in the reflection I am worlds away.” _

Missy Higgins -  _ Everyone’s waiting. _

  
  


Catherine had managed to avoid the station for nearly her entire shift. Once she had completed the obligatory briefing and tasking meeting, she grabbed her bowler, fitting it squarely and resolutely on her head, and hightailed it out of the side door before the front counter opened for business. She wouldn’t be able to avoid Joyce all shift, but she was going to give it her best shot. She had seen the dawn in after a bemused Clare had gone back to bed and by the time she had got to work, all intentions to log on and actually be distracted with admin and, God forbid, productive as well had come to naught. Which is how she found herself chatting to the working girls on Stony Road Lane. Of course, she had justified this as checking in with Leonie and Kelsey because they were vulnerable but really, she was killing time before heading back to Hebden to do the rounds of Ms Greenwood’s injured parties to make sure that the agreed community resolution had been sorted.

As it turned out the shift was uneventful. The local pub landlord in Hebden seemed eager to see her out the door, suitably vague about what had been agreed with Ms Greenwood. Catherine suspected one of the mutton carcasses from the traffic altercation may have made its way into his outhouse for butchering, but she decided to let sleeping dogs lie there. Maybe she wouldn’t be bringing Clare and Ryan down for Sunday roast this week though. The old lady who had been mown down by marauding tups was similarly keen to see Catherine back down the path, and the waft of what she could have sworn was mutton stew assaulted her nostrils as the old dear shut the door with a resolute “Yes, thank you, Sergeant, see you soon.”

So Catherine headed back to the station to catch Cheryl before she booked off. Again Catherine managed to slide through the side door unnoticed and sent Cheryl a text rather than calling her on the radio:  _ “My office, now!”  _

Cheryl had been rather sheepish (pun intended, score one Catherine!) truth be told. She had taken her dressing down better than Catherine had expected. A wide berth between her and Far Slack Farm had been advised unless specifically allocated to a job there and the downcast look and meek “yes, Skipper” from Cheryl suggested that the lesson may have been learned.

As Cheryl left, Catherine called out, “You might as well come in rather than hover behind doorpost waiting to ambush me.”

A grinning Joyce entered the room wafting a post-it note. “Before I give you this tell me the name o’me ‘usband.”

“Billy, yer lummox,” countered Catherine, sighing and holding out an upturned palm.

“Just checkin’, don’t pay to tek things on face value round ‘ere,” Joyce countered.

“Very droll, face value, s’pose you think yer funny, did yer rehearse that, now close door and take a seat if you’ve time,” a weary Catherine replied.

Catherine looked at the paper in her hand:  _ McKenzie-Dawson, Caroline  _ it began, with a list of personal details and no trace info from the Police National Computer, all in Joyce’s neat script.

“You didn’t!” she exclaimed.

“Well, taillight were out on that fancy Jag, had to run the plate.” Joyce winked. “And besides, looks better if I did it, when you weren’t ‘ere, rather than you.”

Catherine knew damned well the taillight hadn’t been out because she’d watched the back of the car until it turned out of the road. She sighed.

“So,” said Joyce “Ow yer doin.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “I’m fine. Effed off, insecure, neurotic and emotional. But other than that, yeah I’m fine.”

“Drink and a curry?” Joyce grinned.

“No, not tonight, thanks, our Daniel is taking Ryan to the footie and Clare’s out with Neil. I was gonna stop of at Heptonstall and spend a bit of time wi’our Becky and go home to a bath.”

“Have you rung her?”

“Who Becky? Strangely, no.”

“Don’t be clever, madam. It don’t suit yer.” Joyce fixed Catherine with her no-nonsense glare.

Catherine slumped back in her chair.“No. I’ve not, not yet.” 

“You must be curious,” Joyce countered.

“Not as much as you are, by looks.”

“Yer fooling no-one, lady. I’ve known you too long, go on wi’yer, yer know where I am when yer ready.”

“Oh aye, I used to be a detective, remember, I think I’ll find yer,” Catherine shouted to a closing door.

As she walked up the path towards Becky’s grave Catherine noticed a forlorn figure in the garden of remembrance two plots across from Becky. Catherine swore under her breath, cursing the same deities that she had been so grateful to the day before. 

Un-fucking-believable! There stood Caroline McKenzie-Dawson. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Universe, or Kate, throws them together to talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to google Patty Duke but an un-beta'd easter egg seemed the least I could do

_ I was much further out than you thought _

_ And not waving but drowning _

Stevie Smith,  _ Not waving but drowning _

  
  


Catherine sighed, but stomped on. Passing Becky’s lot, she hovered, hands firmly in pockets and head hunkered down close to her shoulders, her scarf acting as a reassuring barrier. She was not usually given to indecision, her job demanded no quarter for self doubt, but she was also British enough not to intrude upon someone in a cemetery. So she placed herself close enough as to be in line of sight but not invasive.

Caroline felt rather rather than heard Catherine’s approach. The cemetery was isolated enough for her to be cautious of other visitors. She turned and their eyes locked. 

Catherine nodded. “Ow do?”

Caroline gazed down at the slab at her feet, at the name inscribed there: _Katherine “Kate” Obeki McKenzie-Dawson,_ the golden letters glistening in the light. “I would have managed to call her—eventually!” she muttered down to her wife’s spirit.

Caroline looked back up at her visitor.“Evening Sergeant, shall we sit?” She extended a firm hand for shaking and motioned at the nearby bench. “Am I under surveillance now for impersonating one of her majesty's finest?”

Catherine’s head shot up. “No, No, it’s me daughter Becky. I often come and talk to her when I’ve things on my mind.” She motioned back across to the plot where Becky’s stone was. “I didn’t expect company.”

“Oh,” Caroline nodded toward Kate’s stone. “Seems we have something else in common. My wife, Kate.” 

“Aye well, best we un-pick that. I’m Catherine by the way, I’m 52, I’m divorced, I live with me sister who’s a recovering heroin addict, I’ve two grown up children, one dead and one who’s not and two grandkids, so...”

“Caroline, 53. Headteacher, divorced, two grown up sons, remarried, one young daughter, widowed, a stepsister and I live with my daughter, a dog called Ruth, and sometimes my youngest son and, at the moment, my bloody pathetic ex husband...it’s complicated!”

They both laugh nervously,

“So,” ventured Catherine. “Your parents?” 

“My mother was from Sowerby Bridge. She moved to Sheffield as a teenager, met my dad at a dance and married him, and they had me. He died 10 years ago and my mother met up with an old flame from her Sowerby days, they married, and hey presto, I have a stepsister, you met her, Gillian.”

“Sheffield, you say? Where did they work?” Catherine’s blue-eyed gaze matched Caroline’s in its intensity. Caroline was struck with resignation at how like a pair of matching bookends she and Catherine were.

“Dad was an Design engineer at Brindleys, the Central hammer works, and my mother worked as a shorthand secretary at Frank Mills cutlers.” Caroline said “She left when she got married.”

Catherine nodded thoughtfully, “I never knew me dad, Clare’s dad hung around until she were about four, then it were just the three of us til me mother died when I were fifteen. Our Clare were a proper handful after that. We went into care but they wouldn’t let me take her when I got to 18, she fell in with wrong lot and I couldn’t stop it.” 

Caroline noticed that Catherine’’s eyes had drifted over to Becky’s grave as she had been talking. There was a story there for another day. She wanted to reach out a hand but felt that was a bit intimate for someone you had just met, even if it were ever more likely that they were related.

Catherine leaned forward, forearms resting along her upper legs. “My mother was from here, she moved to Sheffield attracted by the lure of the big city. Story as old as the hills; left a small town as soon as she could, swore she’d do better for herself, came back in disgrace swinging her arms. She were a shorthand secretary at Mills’ as well, ‘appen they knew each other, our mothers. I’d say she certainly knew your father! The Dawson bit, that’s his name isn’t it?”

Caroline nodded. “Yes, John, my ex-husband, is an Elliot, Kate was a McKenzie. A good guess or your police instinct?”

“No, neither, not entirely anyway: I pulled him over, you know, one night. I were young, in service then, out on patrol. He were visiting the lasses up back of canal basin in Sowerby, we’d been watching the area. Kenneth Dawson. I kept my pocket notebook. He looked quite like me, and he kept gazing at me in wonderment, I mean it were proper odd — not like the usual bluster and bravado or mortification, he just kept looking at me like I were some kind of longed for present he’d unwrapped on Christmas morning. He insisted on shaking me hand too after I’d let him off with a warning, which were even odder — most of ‘em just want to get out of Dodge. I kinda knew, which is why I held onto me pocket notebook I guess.” Catherine shook her head and scuffed her boots through the gravel.

Their eyes met, an unspoken memorandum of understanding.

“Do you think your mother knows? About mine, I mean? Not about me?” Catherine asked.

Caroline gathered her thoughts for a moment. “She knew he was unfaithful. She knew he was a rogue. She nearly bled out when she was delivering me, he was nowhere to be found, she found out, about seven years later, that he’d been out with another woman. They had a massive row about it in the kitchen whilst I sat on the landing listening. She also knew this wasn’t the last time, and probably suspected it wasn’t the first. A child though, I honestly would have said not, but thinking about it, a few years ago we found out that Alan, my stepfather, had a son from an affair he’d had when he was married to Gillian’s mother. He didn’t know there had been a child, but this child, well, man, Gary, tracked him down. My mother had this really bad reaction to it, telling him he was just like my father. In fact, She had a major sulk and claimed embarrassment, said folks would be laughing at her, refused to leave the house. She didn’t come to our wedding, Kate and me. If Kate hadn't died, I wonder if we’d be speaking now. Thinking back now, maybe there was a bit more to that than she let on. I honestly don’t know. I am, however, going to find out!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caroline seeks out Gillian. Gillian provides a distraction. Caroline gets dirty boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the liberties I have taken with screen sirens. OK who am I kidding, I really don't apologise but I know I should!
> 
> Again any errors are mine. My beta is still rolling her eyes at the sheep.
> 
> Warning for Salty language. Please substitute words of your choice if it isn't your thing.

“ _ For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack _ ”

Rudyard Kipling -  _ The Jungle Book _

  
  


Gillian grinned as her phone started to ring. “ _ Sweet Caroline… _ ” sang Neil Diamond.

“Bom! Bom! Bom!” she crooned into the receiver as she answered.

“I thought I’d asked you to take that bloody thing off!” Caroline grumbled.

“Go on, you know you love it,” Gillian shot back.

Caroline huffed. “Do you have plans tonight?” 

Gillian clicked her tongue. “Oh aye, an all nighter wi’me girls Judy and Barb, you’d be welcome to join us but you’ll need to dress proper.” 

“Won’t your friends mind me crashing your evening? I don’t want to intrude. Besides, I didn’t think dressing up to the nines was your thing?” Caroline’s puzzled tone made Gillian’s grin morph into a full blown smile.

“Fer an Oxford graduate yer a bit slow sometimes, Caz...Judy BAAland and BAAbra Herdwick, two o’me ewes, they’re in lamb, ‘bout to drop. So you can join us in t’hut in the ten acre field but you’ll need warm socks and not be afraid to get them posh hunter wellies a bit mucky.” 

“Seriously! Judy BAAland? Do all your animals have daft names?” 

“Mmn, whole lot: Judy BAAland, BAAbra Herdwick, MAAlena Deitrich, Anne MAArgaret, Ava BAArdner, MAArl Oberon, Bleater Hayworth, Hedy LaMAA, Maureen OBAAra….”

“Ok! OK! Enough. I worry about you. Anyway, I need to talk. I spoke with our new police friend.”

“Shit! You did? That were quick...thought you’d sit on that a bit longer.” Gillian’s interest was now piqued.

“Long story. Universe, well, probably Kate, really, conspired.”

“Kate?” Gillian said. “And you worry about me?”

“Wind your neck in, can Flora snuggle in with Calamity, I presume Raff and Ellie are there?” 

“Yeah, no worries. Are you on yer way over? I’ve a bit of Mutton stew on that I can eek out for 6”

“Oh God, roadkill supper, I’ll bring the wine.” Caroline laughed.

“No wine, lady... you’ll be needing a clear head,” Gillian retorted.

Dinner eaten, excited children left to be bathed and read to by Raff, Caroline and Gillian walked across the yard.

As they rounded the back of the barn Caroline was rendered speechless. When Gillian had said “hut,” Caroline had imagined some rusting, rickety structure of corrugated iron, but before her was the most enchanting shepherd’s hut with iron cart wheels, bowed roof, and freshly painted. She stood slack jawed in awe.

Gillian grinned, “Thought it’d meet wi’yer approval, I inherited it when old Ted Braithwaite next farm o’er popped his clogs. Needed a bit of work, it were almost derelict, but the time has paid off. Stove’s on, you make a brew whilst I set the gate and bales up to make pen and round up Judy and Babs.”

Caroline stepped inside. A beautiful patchwork quilt was folded on top of a pile of woolen utility blankets. She remembered her grandmother’s bedroom having the same sort, functional and warm. Her fears of a chilly night dissipated by the second. Above the bed, a boat shelf with a selection of classic paperbacks:  _ The Count of Monte Cristo _ ,  _ The Outsider _ ,  _ True Grit _ ,  _ Remembrance of Things Past _ ,  _ The L-shaped Room _ . She felt she had been let into Gillian’s sanctuary, Gillian never ceased to surprise her and yet in many ways that was no surprise at all. 

Later, they sat on the wooden steps, Caroline in the doorway and Gillian below her, leaning back against her knees. As they cradled hot, comforting tea, the British elixir to soothe all ills, Caroline watched the moonlight bathing the grass before them. The gentle bleating of the flock and the to-and-fro calling of a distant pair of owls the only sounds around them. It was a night made for whispered confessions and shared fears.

“So c’mon. Out w’it. What were she like? Is she as scary off duty as she is in that uniform?” Gillan probed.

“She was — well, she was like me; weary, kinda not as together as she puts out. It seems highly probable she’s my half sister, but then I kinda knew that, really. Our mothers worked together. She also met my dad.”

“Met him? Like when she were little?” 

“No, she stopped him one night when she was a young copper. Apparently he’d been using the prostitutes over at Sowerby. What a knight. My mother’s backyard. Seems she realised the resemblance and he was kind of acting weird, so she kept his details.”

“They never met up again, though?” Gillian queried.

“No, it had been her and Claire, her sister, against the world for so long I don’t think she  was interested. Plus I mean with her job, people knowing that you were a relative of a bloke who uses prostitutes, well, you wouldn’t need it, would you?”

“‘Spose not. He were a right piece o’work, your dad. No wonder your mother went at me dad so hard when she were disgusted w’im over our Gary”

“Hmmn. Well, yeah, I still think she knew, and that’s what I’m gonna find out tomorrow. I’ve taken the day off. Alan will be at work. I want answers.”

“Shit, Caz, there will be fireworks.”

“Yeah maybe, but it’s a hell of a thing to keep from someone. Maybe I’ll have a few fireworks of my own.”

“Like a Catherine wheel?” Gillian sniggered into her tea.

“Fuck off! You’re not funny.”

“I so am. You so know it! Oh! grab a glove, we’re on!” Gillian threw her mug onto the grass below and rose to her feet. Pulling an arm-length polythene glove from her Barbour pocket, she lobbed it at her step-sister before stooping to collect the lantern from the bottom step.

“Oh no! I’m not putting my hand in a sheep!” Caroline cringed.

“You are, y’know. It’ll be fine, you’ve probably got a talent for…”

“Fuck off!! Really, now! Fuck off!” Caroline exclaimed. 

Gillian cackled and opened the pen gate. “C’mon, yer gonna be dead this time tomorrow anyway when Celia’s done. Might as well see new life in first.”

“I bloody hate you, AND I AM NOT PUTTING MY ARM IN A SHEEP!” Caroline said as she made her way into the pen.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caroline seeks answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sat on this for a while. I haven't come up with anything different meanwhile despite revisiting it so here goes.
> 
> Thanks to Ms. Vivian for the beta.  
> Any errors are mine.
> 
> As always replace any salty words with more vanilla ones of your choosing. I was once told that cursing is a sign of a limited vocabulary. My vocabulary is extensive I just enjoy a good curse!

“We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows”  
Robert Frost, “The Secret Sits”

Caroline had awoken early, amazingly rested despite the cramped confines of a shared single bunk in the shepherds hut. Gillian’s arm had wrapped around her protectively at some point during the night, and Caroline found herself shimmying downward toward the end of the bunk in order to extract herself without waking a gently snoring Gillian. She looked down fondly at the sleeping figure now stretching toward the wall in search of the presence just lost. Caroline mused at the peace that overtook Gillian’s features in restful sleep. So different from the chaotic terrors that often overtook her step-sister’s dreams. They had fallen into an easy habit of bunking in together whenever Caroline stayed over and she had been amazed at how comfortably their bodies sought out the other both seeking to protect and be protected. Usually, anxious furrows appeared above knotted eyebrows and wide fearful eyes opened with a start whenever Caroline tried to sooth Gillian’s thrashing, muttering form, as the dark spectre of Eddie invaded her nights. She made two mugs of tea, and then shook Gillian gently. “Gillian, wake up. I need to go shortly.”

“Mmnpf!” A hand reached back and grabbed her wrist, pulling Caroline’s arm precariously close to unfettered boobage.

“Gillian, wake up!”

Gillian’s eyes opened. “I’m awake you twat, just enjoying a rare moment of lie-in.”

“You were so not awake,” said Caroline, retrieving her arm and proffering a warm mug of tea in its place. “For starters, you were drooling and even at your advancing age, you haven’t quite reached your dotage.”

“Oi! I’m only an hour older than you! Cheeky bugger! So how are Liza and Lorna and Jason doing? “

“Liza, Lor...oh, yeah of course!” Caroline rolled her eyes, looking down from the doorway at three frenetic wagging tails attached to three lamb butts, and poking out from the bottom of two weary-looking ewes ”Seem to be feeding well. Mothers both look a bit tuckered though.”

Gillian poked her head over Caroline’s shoulder. “Nah, all good hardy flock mine. Talking of mothers…”

“Mothers, indeed. I’m going up to the house to shower and change and I’m heading over, wish me luck.”

“Will you phone me or should I just wait to hear from the undertaker?” Gillian laughed.

“Who for? My dear mother or me?” Caroline’s jaw set as she looked up.

“Well, she’s not likely to go down wi’out a fight, our Celia, but at her age the shock might see her off before she gets chance.” 

“Mmn, listen, go to go, I’ll phone, or maybe text, depends.”

Caroline pulled up outside Alan and Celia’s bungalow. The sitting room was empty, so she walked around to the conservatory in hopes of finding her mother. 

Her mother looked up from her Daily Mail. “Compounds with the same chemical formula but different structures? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Isomers. Huh, that’s kind of why I’m here, mum.”

“Isomers.” Celia clicked her tongue and filled in the answer to 11 down on her crossword. “You’ve not had the sack, again?”

“Mum, I did not get the sack from Sulgrave, we came to a mutual agreement that it would be best for me to seek other challenges.” Caroline trotted out her oft-repeated protest to this accusation.

Her mother looked over at her, purse lipped. “It would be such a shame, you’ve pulled that school up by its bootlaces, even that Ofcom report said so.”  
“Ofstead,” a weary Caroline responded. “Ofcom is telephones.” She pulled out a chair opposite her mother and sat.

“Well whatever, you’ve not though, have you? Had the sack? Are the boys ok? What’s happened?” Celia’s questioning gaze was razor sharp across the Irish linen covered table.

“No I’ve not had the sack. I have the day off. Well, took the day off, I — I wanted to talk with you about something.”

“What was so important that you needed a day off?”

“Mum.” Caroline looked up beseechingly. “Apart from Gillian...” Celia tutted, Caroline ignored her and ploughed on: “Apart from Gillian, do I have a sister?”

Celia went pale. She stood, hands visibly shaking, eyes blazing. “Why would you ask such a thing? A sister?”

“Mum!” Caroline pleaded.

Celia, now deflated, gazed up forlornly at Caroline, suddenly seeming every single year of her age.


End file.
